The Fab Four’s biographer is thrilled to see his unique collection of
memorabilia in safe hands for ever as part of a new government tax incentive

Many years ago, when the world was young and vinyl ruled, I used to sit in the Abbey Road studio, watching the Beatles at work.

At the end of a session, I would pick up their odd scraps of paper – the lyrics of a song they had been working on, scribbled on the back of an envelope or a telephone bill. I would ask if I could have it, as it might be useful to me in writing the band’s biography (the only one they would ever authorise, as it turned out). They always said yes, as the cleaners would just burn the scraps along with the other bits of rubbish left on the floor.

The Beatles showed little interest in their own jottings because their only concern was the recorded song. Once George Martin and his little helpers had done all the technical stuff, they reckoned the job was done.

Don’t forget that this was between 1966 and 1968 – from Revolver to the White Album – and John, Paul, George and Ringo were still in their twenties. You tend not to think ahead at that age, and certainly not about phoney concepts such as posterity.

Today, handwritten Beatles lyrics to A Day in the Life and All You Need is Love – neither of which I own – fetch up to £1 million each at auction. The reason I kept the lyrics that I salvaged from the studio floor was because I keep everything. Like many men, I am a hoarder.

We men justify it, of course, by saying what we collect is social history, rather than trivia; those old ticket stubs and band T-shirts are part of music history that will one day be valuable. We tell this to ourselves because we can’t bear to throw any of the stuff out.

But not all memorabilia is clutter. The main items in my own collection are the handwritten lyrics to nine songs by John and Paul, a lyric (unrecorded) by George, and three letters from John, two to me and one to Stu Sutcliffe, the Beatle who died in Hamburg. Not all were picked up from the studio floor; Yesterday was written out for me by Paul in 1966, just so I could see a good example of his handwriting.

Once my Beatles book was published, I shoved all the bits of paper in a drawer. Some time around 1975, we were burgled and various items were taken, including my records signed by the Fab Four. On the insurance, I claimed £2 per LP because, at that time, there was no extra value in their autographs. Earlier this year, a signed copy of the Sergeant Pepper album sold for £57,000.

So when, in 1982, I woke up to discover that Sotheby’s had had its first ever sale of rock ’n’ roll memorabilia, I realised that my Beatles scraps alone were worth more than my house. By this time, I had framed a few of them, thinking they might amuse my children, who in fact showed no interest.

But I was so proud to have them on my walls regardless, because I love the songs so dearly. I was also relieved that I had kept them all together when at the time they had no financial value and might well have been destroyed.

I began to worry they were not safe on the walls. Beatles fans, once they found out, bombarded me, wanting to come and see them – and lots came, from all over the world. That seemed like a good reason to get them out of my house. So I rang the British Museum and asked if they would like them. I expected them to say don’t be silly, we don’t want such trivial things as pop songs. To my pleasure and surprise, they said great, send them over.

Since 1985, they have been on permanent loan and on public display around the world – at the British Museum and, most recently, since the unveiling of the new British Library extension in 1998, in the Manuscript Room, alongside Magna Carta and Shakespeare’s First Folio.

When the Queen attended the British Library’s reopening, I am told she lingered longest around the Beatles display. The lyrics still attract the biggest crowds, because they are easy to understand. You need good medieval Latin to appreciate Magna Carta, but most people around the globe can make out the words to Yesterday.

Some years ago, I arranged for all my Beatles artefacts to go to the British Library. I’ve never wanted to sell them; Paul would never speak to me again if I did.

Then, last year, I was approached by Jamie Andrews, of the British Library, about the Government’s Cultural Gifts scheme – launched this week by culture minister Ed Vaizey – whereby people can donate art works of cultural significance in exchange for a reduction in their tax liability. Until now, such gifts had usually been handed over by dead people. You hear about aristocrats leaving a Renoir to the nation in lieu of death duties, but you never know the details. It was a complicated and cloudy business.

To qualify for the Cultural Gifts scheme, which has up to £30 million a year to spend, your item must be considered to be of national interest. My Beatles collection is seemingly of such import that the British Library invited me to be the first to apply for the scheme.

I didn’t know then what a process it would be. There were meetings and briefings from the British Library, Arts Council, Department of Culture, Treasury and HMRC – all fighting their patch.

I handed over six Lennon items, including his lyrics to Strawberry Fields Forever and In My Life. They had to be valued, and I don’t get paid as such, but for the next five years, I can offset 30 per cent of the items’ value against tax on my future earnings. Now, I have no idea what my income will be for the next five years, so I’ve had to guess. And, at the age of 77, I don’t know if I will last that long. If I pop it tomorrow, the Government gets to keep my treasures for nothing.

But the main thing is I have ensured my Beatles collection is kept together – out of foreign hands and on public show, for ever.